Page 26 of Whiskey Splash

“Naked,” Naomi chimes in.

“And ...” Arie lifts her pinky finger from a droopy curl into the upright and locked position, her eyebrows raising with it. I try to fight back the flush that spreads across my cheeks, and I shrug nonchalantly.

“Something like that.”

“Holy shit!” Arie exclaims.

Naomi nods, validated. “Thank you. I'm glad someone gets it.”

Arie's eyes narrow on me. “And you're not completely freaking out right now?”

“You mean freaking out about the possibility of losing my job?” I interject. “Why, yes, actually I am. Or do you mean freaking out about the fact that the highest-profile guest at our resort has probably checked out and I wouldn’t be surprised if he filed a harassment suit? I believe freaking out is exactly why I am drinking copious amounts of alcohol.” I lean forward and swipe the Grey Goose bottle from the counter, throwing back a hot, sharp gulp of straight vodka. I cough as the liquid sears down my throat.

Arie laughs and turns to Naomi. “Let me guess, Esme bailed on him, took the rest of the day off, and spent it drowning herself in martinis? Yes?”

“You two must be twins,” Naomi nods. “Cause that was uncanny.”

“Nope,” Arie turns to me with her signature smirk. “It’s classic Esme. If a hot eligible bachelor wants my sister … well, that means she’s totally freaking out, hiding in every way possible, and avoiding the truth that she also wants to fuck his brains out!”

“Arie! Geez!”

“Oh, Arie me nothing!” she sasses. “Look me in the eye right now and tell me, if your job hadn’t been at stake, you wouldn't have jumped his bones?”

I roll my eyes and walk into the living room, taking another swig straight from the bottle, my mind buzzing. I glare out the window at the setting sun. It bounces off the Waikiki skyscrapers, hot pink and gorgeous. The golden blaze reflecting in all the windows reminds me of the way the candlelight played on Desmond’s sculpted muscles, the slick oil all over my hands as I pushed the tension out of his skin.

“Get back over here, chicken, and look me in the eyes!” Arie calls out from the kitchen.

“I'm not a child,” I hiss back, but when I look at my sister, all I get is one big goofy grin lit by her mischievous devil's fire.

“Oh, this is going to be so much fun!” she says, and my stomach drops. I'm in trouble. Again. “Oh Esme!” Arie croons. “Prepare your hot little cooch, because Desmond Pike just got the best wing man he could ever dream of. Whatever that man wants—when it comes to you, oh baby, I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure he gets it!”

“Don't you dare!” I scold, pointing a finger at her lamely. Arie playing matchmaker for one night I can handle, but full-on Arie meddling, that’s a whole different ball game. Naomi laughs like she can't wait to see how this is going to play out.

“Don't I dare, what?” Arie asks, playing coy. “Play with fire? Oh, little sister!” Her eyes sparkle, always loving to point out that five-minute age difference. “Welcome to Flambé. I'm going to make sure you see nothing but red-hot flames.”

My stomach turns and I retreat to the couch next to Naomi as my sister laughs. “Do you realize what just happened?” I ask Naomi, who nods her head with similar excitement to my sister.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “You're about to get a personal pony ride on the hottest TV bachelor’s—!”

“No,” I interrupt, fuming. “I'm about to lose my job.”

Naomi shrugs. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Your sister has some miraculous talents.”

“Yeah,” I agree, gulping down another generous swig from the vodka bottle. “She's spectacularly good at burning down the house.”

Chapter Seven

Four days later my life has returned to some semblance of normalcy. Surprisingly, I haven’t seen Desmond (thank goodness!) and Arie’s meddling promise is starting to feel more like hot air than true dragon’s play.

It’s only Mrs. Rose who’s still on the rampage, shadowing my every movement at The Mandara like an evil wraith. I’ve decided the best way to defeat a perfectionist is to play her own game and be extra vigilant. I do everything by the book. I show up early. I overachieve. I follow all the rules like clockwork and show the witch I’m one-hundred-percent professional. If there’s no evidence to use against me, then hopefully it will all blow over.

When my shift is done, I clock out and grab my yoga mat from my locker, heading for the sunset yoga class on the beach. Tammy, one of the other girls from the spa, runs the class and it’s free for anyone at the resort, guests and employees alike.

I usually do her sunrise class, enjoying the crisp morning air and letting it wake me up in the right mindset. But lately, I’ve been so strung up at work that I need some serious after-hours relaxation. My job used to be my automatic Zen place, but since Mrs. Rose has become a royal Zen-block, I’m strung up tighter than her hair bun.

Out on the beach, I wave to Tammy and take my normal position in the front row and to the right. I lay out my mat and pull my lavender hair off my neck. With the humidity my skin is already damp and some of the strands have already started to stick. I do my best to weave my hair into a lose braid as I take in the beautiful horizon.

The beach stretches out on both sides of me. The day’s swimmers and sunbathers all starting to retreat for the evening, clearing out the white sand, which is bathed in a soft tangerine glow from the lowering sun. The water is calm today, and the sunlight reflecting in the water looks like a giant shimmering orb of fire.

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